Chapter 1

The dead don't speak, but in Karaz Tarul, they whisper in metal.

I stood alone in the ruined forge, deep beneath a mountain no one remembered. The air was thick with ash and old blood, but all I could hear was the hammer—my hammer—singing against the anvil. The echoes struck stone and silence alike, like they were hunting for the soul of the place.

Each swing reverberated through my bones. Sparks bloomed around me like fireflies—beautiful, brief, and gone. And in the rhythm of steel on steel, I found something close to peace.

The others hadn't made it this far. Goblin raids, blizzards, worse things in the dark—Karaz Tarul had claimed them all. I was the last, and I'd come not for gold, not for glory, but for this: the forge of my ancestors.

What I made here wasn't just a weapon. It was a pact.

I started with the shaft—a simple rod of iron, inscribed with runes not found in any known lexicon. Strike true. Endure. Grow. That last one was mine. A rune not passed down, but born in fire and blood. It shimmered faintly, like it understood.

Then came the head.

I found the black iron deep in the hold's forgotten vaults, fused to bone and rusted steel. It took days to pry loose. Weeks to shape. And in every swing of my hammer, I could feel something watching—waiting. Not malevolent. Just… aware.

One side I forged blunt, like the smith's hammer I'd carried since boyhood. The other I honed into a crescent blade, sharp enough to sever steel from stone. When I joined them, the weapon pulsed in my hands like a second heartbeat.

I called it Skarnvalk. It didn't just rest on my shoulder. It settled there, like it belonged.

And maybe it did.

By the time I walked into the village below, the air was colder, and Skarnvalk felt heavier—hungrier. The locals watched me like I was a storm rolling in. A half-wild dwarf with a rune-glowing warhammer wasn't exactly subtle.

They stared when I walked into the inn, boots caked in dust, Skarnvalk slung across my back. Not that I blamed them. A dwarf in a town of men always drew eyes, even more so when he looked half-feral and carried a weapon that practically hummed with malice. I paid for a meal with what few coins I had left and kept my head low, though I couldn't help catching bits of conversation from the tables around me.

"...spotted near the eastern ridge again. Another caravan didn't make it."

"...I tell you, the thing's real. Old Sully saw it with his own eyes, claws like bloody scythes..."

"...we can't keep losing trade. If someone doesn't step in, the whole valley'll starve before winter's out."

I chewed the dry bread slowly, thinking. My last journey had been a test of survival, a pilgrimage to the forge. This time, I needed to be smarter. The hammer wasn't just for display; it was a solution, a weapon meant to change the course of things. Skarnvalk and I needed to prove ourselves—and it sounded like this "thing" in the eastern ridge might be a good place to start.

The barkeep, a wiry old man with more missing teeth than hair, leaned over the counter and asked, "You a fighter, then?"

"Depends," I said. "What's the pay?"

He snorted. "Pay's what's left of the trade goods when the beast's dead. Some of it's worth a good pile of gold, I reckon. But you're not the first to ask, and I'm guessin' you won't be the last to walk out there and not come back."

I grunted, finishing the last of the bread and chasing it with a sip of lukewarm ale. "What kind of beast?"

The barkeep's face darkened. "They say it's a grimwing—a thing from the deep woods, part wolf, part bird, part… something else. Big as a horse, quick as a shadow. Claws can slice a man in half. Only comes at night."

A grimwing. I'd heard of them before, in the old stories my kin told over forge fires. Unnatural creatures twisted by ancient curses, they were rare enough that most folk didn't believe they existed. If this was truly a grimwing, it would be dangerous. Lethal, even. And that was exactly the kind of challenge I needed. I'd forged Skarnvalk to be more than a simple hammer. It had a will, a hunger for combat, and I intended to feed it.

I rose from the table, my chair scraping loudly on the wooden floorboards. "Where's the ridge?"

"Head east outta town," the barkeep said, eyes narrowing. "Follow the trail until you hit the cliffs. If you hear the trees go quiet, you're close."

He didn't wish me luck. None of them did. They watched me go like they were already carving my name into a gravestone.

The trail was muddy from a recent storm, and my boots sank with every step. The air was colder here, the trees taller, the undergrowth thicker. Each crack of a twig or rustle of leaves set my heart racing. I kept my grip on Skarnvalk tight, the hammer's familiar weight calming my nerves. The runes glimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through the forest canopy, as if they sensed what was to come.

By the time I reached the cliffs, the sun was sinking below the horizon. The barkeep had been right: the forest grew deathly quiet as I neared the ridge. The usual chorus of birds and insects faded into a heavy, oppressive silence. Even the wind seemed to die, leaving only the faint sound of my own breathing and the thud of my boots on the wet earth.

I crouched and carved a small rune circle into the forest floor—simple, elegant, a beacon laced with provocation. It would draw the thing. Or it wouldn't. Either way, I wasn't wandering these cursed trees all night with my ass hanging in the wind.

I sat beside the glowing circle, Skarnvalk resting across my lap. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, letting the cold seep into my bones. Waiting. Listening.

And then the forest exhaled.

Every bird, every insect, every rustling leaf went silent.

A twig snapped to my left.

My eyes opened.

Another sound—a low growl, like gravel sliding down a cliff. Something was watching me. No… studying me. I stood slowly, the hammer rising with me. I could feel it in my spine—the shift of air, the deliberate tension of a predator preparing to strike.

And then I saw it.

Golden eyes flared in the darkness, unblinking. Feathers black as coal. A body like a wolf twisted with unnatural grace, but stretched—elongated, wrong. Massive wings curled at its sides like a cloak, each feather edged like a blade. Clawed forelimbs flexed, carving lines into the earth as it stepped into the circle's faint glow.

I grinned. "So you're the one making all the trouble around here," I said, my voice calm despite the tightening in my chest. "Name's Doran Thargrimm, by the way. Figure we'll get introductions out of the way before I turn you into scrap."

It was gorgeous, in the way a landslide is gorgeous—majestic, unstoppable, and sure to crush you if you blink.

"Alright then, beastie," I muttered, my grin widening. "Let's dance."

The rune circle flared. The grimwing lunged.

I moved.

Skarnvalk came up in a two-handed guard just in time to catch its claws—scrreeeaaaak—the sound of talons raking across the metal pauldron on my left arm. I twisted my torso, using the momentum to roll my shoulder and slide under the strike. The beast landed where I'd stood, and the ground shook.

I brought the hammer down in a brutal overhead arc, aiming for its spine.

Too slow.

The grimwing snapped its wings wide and exploded backward into the shadows. Leaves and dirt whipped around me. I coughed, vision half-obscured, just in time to see it vanish into the treeline.

I backed into the rune circle again, breath slow and measured. "Come on then," I muttered. "Try again."

It did.

A blur to the right—barely perceptible until the last moment. I pivoted into it, swinging Skarnvalk laterally with all the power I had. The hammer caught the beast's shoulder mid-pounce. The impact cracked through the clearing like thunder.

It howled.

Black blood sprayed across my chest. It stumbled sideways, slamming into a tree hard enough to snap the trunk in two. I moved to follow up—blade side this time—but it recovered faster than I expected.

It twisted on three limbs, one shoulder mangled, and lunged low. Too low. I tried to pull back but it was too fast.

Claws raked across my left thigh. My leg buckled. Pain surged like lightning through my hip and up my spine. I dropped to one knee, snarling through clenched teeth.

It reared back for the kill.

Now.

I slammed Skarnvalk's haft into the rune circle. The symbols flared—not just with light, but force.

The pulse caught the grimwing mid-leap, blasting it backward. It hit the earth with a grunt, rolled, and came up limping, wings outstretched like a cornered predator.

I stood slowly, favoring my injured leg. My thigh throbbed with each beat of my heart. Blood trickled into my boot, but I could still move. Barely.

The grimwing circled.

Its breathing was ragged. Mine was worse.

Time to end it.

I whispered to the hammer. Not words, exactly—intent. The runes flared in answer. Skarnvalk began to hum again, deeper this time. I felt the temperature around us drop.

The beast sensed it.

It shrieked and charged.

I stepped into it.

Our movements collided in a blur of blood, steel, and instinct. Its claws raked down, aiming to tear my head from my shoulders. I ducked under, twisted my torso, and drove the blunt head of Skarnvalk into its exposed ribs. Bone crunched. The shock traveled up my arms and rattled my teeth.

It howled again, staggered, and I saw it: the opening.

I reversed the grip, brought the axe blade up in a tight arc, and buried it in its throat.

The creature screamed, thrashing, wings flailing wildly. I held on, yanking the blade free, then drove the hammer down once more—this time into its skull.

Crunch.

The body went limp.

Silence returned, thick and absolute.

I stood over the thing, chest heaving, my leg screaming, Skarnvalk dripping with black ichor that steamed in the cold air.

I didn't speak. Didn't celebrate.

I just breathed.

The hammer's runes dimmed, their light flickering like dying embers.

It was over.

It took me three tries to sheath Skarnvalk.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking—not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. It was the recoil. The deep, pulsing hum still coiled in my arms, long after the last blow had landed. Like the hammer had left a piece of itself in my bones.

I leaned against a tree, wincing as pain flared up my left leg. The wound from the grimwing's claws had gone stiff, warm. Bad signs. I dropped to the ground harder than I meant to, hissing as I dug through my satchel for the stitched leather pouch Lisett had packed for me. Godsdamn her for being right about that.

The salve stung like fire. The herbs were alchemical—crushed spiderleaf and emberroot—but there was something else woven in, something arcane. I could feel the dull throb of the rune pattern beneath the poultice, pulsing in sync with my heartbeat.

I bound the leg tight, and for a while, I just sat there. Listening. Waiting.

Nothing moved. Not even the wind.

Eventually, I dragged myself over to the grimwing's corpse. Its body was still warm, the runes from Skarnvalk's strike burned deep into its skull—almost etched in bone. I hadn't carved those in the moment. They'd been dormant ones. Unactivated.

Until now.

I grunted. "That's new."

I ran a thumb over the still-glowing runes on the hammer's head. They were… changed. Slightly. As if the hammer had taken something from the fight. Learned from it. Not just reactive anymore.

Adaptive.

"I didn't give you that," I muttered to Skarnvalk. "Where'd you get it?"

It didn't answer. Of course. But the faint vibration under my palm made my stomach turn.

This weapon—it wasn't just remembering. It was evolving.

I limped back to the makeshift campsite I'd set up before the hunt. A small alcove under a stone overhang, hidden from the road. No fire. Just the warmth of my forge-blanket and the silence of victory.

I unstrapped my armor slowly, wincing as each buckle pulled against bruises I hadn't realized I'd earned. My ribs were already mottled with purple, and my knuckles were raw. One nail was cracked down the center. I hadn't even felt it in the fight.

Funny how pain waits its turn.

Skarnvalk rested beside me, leaned against the stone wall like a silent sentinel. Its runes had gone dark now, inert. Dormant. But not dead.

"I felt you push," I whispered.

There wasn't anyone to hear me, but I spoke anyway. I needed to.

"You wanted that fight."

Silence.

I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come easy. Not with the grimwing's screech still echoing in my skull. Not with the pressure of that final blow rattling in my wrists.

I didn't just kill that thing.

I ended it. Not like a man wielding a weapon, but like… something older. Something more final.

And Skarnvalk had helped.

Or had it led?

By dawn, I still hadn't slept more than an hour. My leg burned like a forge-coal, and the wound had started to darken at the edges. I'd need Lisett's hands on it soon—there were alchemical tricks even I didn't trust myself with.

But first, I needed proof.

I hacked off one of the grimwing's talons, wrapped it in oilcloth, and shoved it into my pack. The blood had already dried on my armor in thick, tar-like streaks. I left it there. Let them see what I'd done.

Back in the village, I'd ask for food, coin, maybe some silence. Let the claw speak louder than I ever could.

And then I'd start listening. Really listening.

To the hammer.

To the runes.

To whatever came next.

Because that fight? That wasn't the final blow.

It was the first step.